


Venn Diagrams

by entanglednow



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-02
Updated: 2010-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric still has no idea what exactly they're doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venn Diagrams

  
There are a number of antique knives in the house. They don't stay in the cases, they end up decorating the furniture, slid in beside the books and slipped in with the silverware. Alaric would wager Damon's never been able to leave dangerous things alone. Never been able to leave them behind glass.

They tend to stray.

Alaric finds one on the hall table. It just seems sensible to take it upstairs with him, to where he can hear the faint and obnoxious strains of whatever music Damon is listening to today. Though how the hell he can have it that loud with a heightened sense of hearing is a mystery.

Damon's stretched out on the bed in his boxer shorts. A line of imperious laziness that he'd probably practiced and perfected a hundred years ago. He's carefully ignoring Alaric from behind a book, cover too old to make out the title. Alaric turns the music down and doesn't miss the huff of annoyance, or possibly amusement, that Damon makes. There's a sigh after it, quiet and completely unnecessary when Alaric sits in the space that isn't occupied by books, or Damon.

"You shouldn't leave knives lying around." Alaric pushes the back cover of the book until it shuts.

"Maybe I left it for you, maybe it was a gift to protect your virtue." Damon flicks his eyebrows up. Like he just can't help being suggestive. Like it's in his blood and always has been.

Alaric nods. "Where was it?"

Damon rolls his eyes like he doesn't want to play 'I'm calling you on your bullshit' today and reaches a hand out for the knife.

Alaric eases it back out of snatching range.

Damon sighs like he doesn’t care. "Fine, you can have it if you want. I have been lax about giving you shiny trinkets."

Alaric presses the flat of the knife down against Damon's chest. The bright silver of it stark even against the paleness of Damon's skin.

Damon raises a questioning eyebrow, lets the book slide off the bed with a thump.

"It's not wood, it won't kill you," Alaric says quietly.

"It will severely inconvenience me though," Damon says. But he doesn't try and take the knife off him. He doesn't move at all, nothing but the almost unnoticeable shift and twitch under the cold of the blade. Or maybe he doesn't even notice how cold it is. Maybe it's all for show. Maybe it's always all for show, even for him. Especially for him.

Alaric tilts the knife, digs the end in just hard enough to break the skin. Damon flinches, more surprise than anything else. He bares his teeth at the broken shine of red on his chest, not enough to curl a trail, but enough to be stark against the skin. Damon knows the cut itself will be gone already, but he still throws Alaric a look that's obviously supposed to be wounded. He's never been able to fake those very well. Alaric can call bullshit on all of them. That's what makes him drag the knife sideways, drawing a line in red underneath his right nipple which brightens and runs and Damon hisses out a breath like he didn't expect that at all. Like Alaric has surprised him.

He gets barely a second of satisfaction before Damon's hand is twisted in his hair, tugging, hard.

Alaric winces and resists.

"If you cut me I get to make you clean it up." Damon's fingers clench and relax in his hair, quick little digs of pain. Alaric's not entirely sure Damon won't just make him. He isn't so sure he'd protest too hard, Damon's made him do so many things without an ounce of force being necessary. He's not even sure where the lines are anymore, where he'd say no. Not that he lets that show on his face. Give Damon an inch and he'd take _everything_.

"Maybe you shouldn't always get what you want," Alaric tells him.

"Come on," Damon says roughly. "You've had my cock in your mouth."

Alaric resists, but he doesn't say no. Damon growls and uses a fraction more strength, until Alaric has to twist his head, has to let Damon drag him down.

It's not Damon that makes him open his mouth though. Damon doesn't make his tongue flatten and spread the flash of red across his nipple, leaving a shining streak of pink. He does that because he wants to, because Damon wants him to, and because he can. Alaric listens to the hitch and catch in Damon's throat, the quiet growl he gets when he digs his teeth in. He can feel his own heartbeat in his throat, the vicious thrill of it that he's never going to admit to, never going to acknowledge.

The knife tumbles out of the sheets and hits the floor.

Damon groans disappointment when Alaric shifts back, pulls away from him.

"I know you don't like having my blood in your system. Which is ridiculous, my blood is awesome."

"You're far too fond of getting me killed," Alaric says softly. His mouth tastes like cold iron and raw animal sharpness. He thinks he's getting used to that too.

"Getting you killed is like the magic in our relationship," Damon tells him.

Alaric disapproves of the word 'relationship' to describe what they're doing. It's not a relationship. It's nothing close to that kind. Whatever they have, it's something dark and vicious that probably hurts more often than it feels good. Sometimes it hurts and feels good at the same time. Sometimes, or all the time. But he wants this, wants the reckless, destructive mess he's made of his own life.

"Maybe you'd become some sort of immortal, sinister and unkillable vampire creature," Damon muses. "I'd hate you then, obviously."

"Obviously," Alaric agrees.

Damon's fingers dig in his scalp again, urging his head back down. Alaric lets him, until the heat of his own breath is curling back off Damon's chest. He digs his teeth round the peak of his nipple, hard enough to feel skin break. Damon groans in his throat, then hisses when Alaric refuses to let up the pressure.

"I'm teaching you bad habits." Damon sounds breathless, which is an achievement Alaric can't remember ever managing before. He relaxes his jaw, tilts his head until he can see Damon's face.

"You deserve everything you get," Alaric says smoothly, breathing air against the nipple he's made shining wet. The bleeding marks close and fade away while he's watching. He's immediately tempted to put them right back again. To see Damon bleeding, or to hear the rough little hitches in every breath. He can't tell which anymore. He does it anyway, teeth and tongue, and the wet slide of pennies in his mouth. Damon's fingers dig into his hair, curses falling out of his mouth like prayers every time he drags the skin into his mouth and sucks it sharply.

There's a quick bite of fingers into his scalp and Alaric tips his head back.

Damon's eyes are dark. He lifts a hand from the bed, finds the edge of Alaric's jaws and presses a thumb against his mouth. Alaric can feel the wet slide of blood there. Damon smears it across his lips and jaw, makes a noise in his throat like he can taste it. He lets his fingers slide into Alaric's mouth, one slow movement and Alaric doesn't bite down, though he's tempted to. He honestly doesn't know whether Damon's disappointed by that or not. Damon's other hand catches the back of his neck, coaxes him up the bed with nothing but strength and want. Alaric's bare thighs slide open round Damon's cold waist, he pins him there with his own weight in a way that he knows means nothing. While Damon hauls him down like he owns him, tongue forcing its way into his mouth with a furious sort of greed. There are fingers in his hair, sharp and too strong and Alaric's barely managing to snatch breaths between every wrenching kiss. Damon seems content to leave him gasping, finding every faint trace of his own blood.

When Damon's hands let him go he's somewhere close to dizzy, shaky with it, pressing down until Damon makes a sound like he's won. Alaric tips his forehead down against Damon's and breathes a mess of words, none of them kind. Damon laughs and it's only fair - it's only fucking fair, to open his mouth wherever he finds skin. The curve of Damon's jaw and the bend of his neck. Making bruises that don't ever stay, listening to the unsteady rasping growl that every inch of pressure gets him.

Alaric would leave a ring of bruises and teeth marks down Damon's chest if he could. Marks that make what they have feel like the war it is. Marks that show outside the room. He opens his mouth again, lets his teeth drag over skin already smeared wet with blood and saliva - unbroken now. But he does his best. Until Damon's nipple is bruised red and over-sensitive.

"Keep doing that and I might let you fuck me," Damon says. "I might let you fuck me hard."

Alaric raises an eyebrow.

"Should I be honoured?"

"Damn right you should be honoured. I don't spread by legs for just anyone." Damon smiles through far too many teeth, kicks a stack of books off the bed and opens his legs around Alaric's waist.

Alaric stretches up, hands sliding up the outside of Damon's thighs. He's heavy, solid, every inch masculine and Alaric doesn’t know how, or why, that became something he wanted. But he wants, wants like he hasn't wanted anything for years. That aching in his bones and painfully hard in his jeans sort of want. The kind that's senseless and reckless and impossible to quit.

"I'll tell you you're special if it will make you feel better," Damon says quietly.

"That's good of you," Alaric leans down and pushes open Damon's mouth, stops him talking and he's clearly not the only one who thinks that's a good idea, because there are cold fingers in his hair again and Damon's teeth are sharp and greedy.

When he pulls away Damon smiles like he knows something Alaric doesn't. Alaric doesn't doubt that he does. A hundred things, a thousand things. Damon lifts a hand, tugs open the buttons on his shirt, and the brush slide of cold fingers on his chest is becoming far too familiar. Alaric knows, more than knows, that he's fallen much too far already. Damon slides the shirt back off his shoulders and pulls until Alaric stops bracing himself and lets Damon take his weight.

Damon slides a hand up his chest until he can curl it round his throat, fingers digging in just enough for Alaric to feel it.

"If being fantastically obscene with me isn't a perk of this relationship then honestly, I don't know what is."


End file.
